


a secret history

by delibell



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Crimes of Grindlewald
Genre: Boarding School, Dark Academia, Hogwarts, Love Triangles, M/M, Male Homosexuality, References to Shakespeare, References to literature in general!, Slytherin, Teacher-Student Relationship, crude humour, lots of gay, male reader - Freeform, will add more tags as i go along lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-08-28 15:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16726476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: (Name) (Lastname) is a very diligent student and will stop at nothing to get what he desires. School is certainly a bore without a secret romance or two.





	1. ACT I: SCENE I

**ACT I**

**SCENE I**

 

 

 

You cannot point to a single sane male that has not have a burning crush on Doris Sherbet. There is a supernatural beauty about her. It fits perfectly in this old, beautiful school. If you are correct, and it is a rarity when you are _not_ , her mother is part fae, and the pale luminous glow about the Ravenclaw girl reminds others of said fact. Her eyes are the colour of seafoam, the very same Aphrodite was born of; her hair is long and curled, soft, gliding; her lips are rose petals, no doubt as pleasant to the touch as they are pleasant to admire.

Yet you are not sane. Quite frankly you have been off your rocker since you were born. An artist. A _fanatic_. Women are beautiful creatures, _yes_ , but they cannot even come close to the male physique in term of erotica. And while the smitten gazes of your peers are forever drawn to Miss Sherbet in her girlish beauty, yours stays fixed on the teachers table. You even crank your neck as you sip your pumpkin juice, eyes roaming frantically for your very own _Dorian Grey_.

Your heart fluffs in your chest as you nearly spit in your cup. Albus Dumbledore laughs at something his fellow muttered under their breath, his grin so radiant you really cannot understand how _Doris_ stands a chance against everyone’s favourite transfiguration Professor. If she is Eve, Albus is Adam. He, too, fits into this strange school. He appears moulded for it. His suit is exquisite, too.

Having a crush on your teacher is fairly normal, you rationalize. Especially when said teacher looks like _that_.

“ _Oi_ , (Lastname), you with us, mate?” Roman calls you, his foot nudging yours with an impish kick. You raise an unimpressed brow, irate at the disturbance.

Vasnev Roman Tarasovich, or simply Roman to his closest friends, is one of the most _insufferable_ , pure-blood fanatics you have had the pleasure of ever encountering. His accent is almost as thick as his head; bushy, tar locks are cut with precision; his eyes are sunken, yet quick, and if one did not know him one would assume he is a grown man sat amongst children and teens. Roman considers you a dear ally, a companion of theatrical merit. You find any association with him poor taste. Yet his family is composed of exclusively Russian oligarchs and they take you along with them on holiday during summer. His fuming over women and their bodies, and a sort of perverse fascination with breasts, is repulsive, and so is he. However, he is _useful_ and you have no problem _using him_ for personal gain.

A true Slytherin, you are. The Head Boy badge neatly clipped to your robe is not only for decoration.

You: “Done playing with mini-Roman?”  
Vasnev: “Was not, you cock.”  
You: “Really? Thought Sherbet got you off with a glance.”  
Vasnev: “As if she doesn’t get _you_ off.”

He gives you an annoyed look, one you are far too used to by now, “Well, whatofit…You heard about the gathering?” He questions in a hushed, secretive tone. His dim eyes round the table. Some chattering students send you two a curious, adoring peek, yet blush and promptly turn away once spotted. Roman has a sort of aura about him. It attracts just as much as it repulses.  


 “No.” You drone, chewing, “Not planning on going either.”

“But Sherbet’s hosting. For the start of the school year.”

You take a thoughtful sip, “I was not invited.”

“ _And_?” Roman frowns, “Never stopped you before.” It never has, truly, “Besides…” He leans in. You would prefer if he did not. “I heard there will be something _stronger_ than punch…And I can bet all my galleons that Doris will have too much and _well_ …You know how the rest goes. She’s a cherry.”

“An adventuress you will not have the pleasure of bedding for the sole reason that you desperately want to.” You say. Your arm slings over his shoulder, “Mate, being _stupid_ is one thing, but now you’re just _delusional_.”

Vasnev: “Fuck you, (Lastname).”  
You: “Consider me fucked. Besides, I was planning on-…”  
Vasnev: “Locking yourself up in your dorm?”   
You: “Studying can be quite beneficial. You should try it.”  
Vasnev: “It’s the first bloody day, mate, and you are already being a pompous ass.”  
You: “Did you learn a new word during the summer?”  
Vasnev: “If _crucio_ wasn’t illegal I swear on Merlin’s Beard you would be howling from pain right now.”

The lively banter is interrupted by the sudden up rise of students. The Slytherin table moves lazily compared to the others. The start of the year feast has come to a close. You finish the last drops of your drink before you come to stand. Just as you are about to belittle Roman one last time, a familiar, angelic figure graces you with its presence. Doris Sherbet stands in front of you, her group of giggling friends behind her like some sort of twisted form of moral support.

“…( _Name_ ) ?” The way she says your name is velvety. It would stir some adultery emotions, if you felt any for her kind.

However, your carefree smile shows no distain, “Yes, _Doris_?” Her face grows red with blush. She clears her throat.

“I was…wondering…if I will see you tonight.”

“That you will, sweetness.” Roman jumps into the fray, his large hand landing on your shoulder with an encouraging pat. You really do not like his intervention, and Sherbet clearly despises it, too, even if she is too polite to outward say it, or even show it. Your plans were to look over your transfiguration notes one last time before tomorrow’s class. Now you will have to find amusement trapped in a room with sweaty, horny teenagers drinking themselves stupid.

You could also give everyone detention. Start the year _right_ by ruining it for everyone else. That idea is a temptress. It nearly lures you into its clutches.

“I’ll see you at midnight, Doris.” You say, your voice soft, near dismissive. Yet she does not notice. The group of girls giggle behind her in eerie union. Her lips bloom with a lovely smile.

“I’ll…I’ll look forward to it!” She saunters away with her friends, their whispers echoing in snake tongues. You could not decipher them even if you tried.  Roman shakes his fist with excitement. You do not enjoy being roped into something that is clearly not your scheme.

“You sly devil _you_.” Roman congratulates, “The whole school will be talking about it. Doris Sherbet and (Name) (Lastname). The _perfect_ couple.”

“I have no taste for romance.” Your eyes catch a glimpse of dishevelled ginger hair disappearing behind the double doors, “Tying myself down is too much of a hassle when there are much more _explorations_ to be done. Do excuse me, now.”

“You’re my hero, (Lastname)!” He calls after you.

Your footsteps echo in the medieval halls of the palace; there is magic in the air, freshness now that the new year has started. The corridors and secret passage ways that had been vacant during the summer breathe with life again. Running here is almost as dear as a hug from a true friend. At the very least, the sensation is similar.

You catch up with the anxious Newton Scamander on his way to the dungeons. Your fingers wrap around his wrist and you pull him out the crowd of students, he nearly releasing a terrified scream at your sudden presence. Though when his friendly green eyes meet your mischievous (colour) ones he seems to calm, even give you a loop-sided grin. He follows after you like a lost puppy, eerily aware of your hold on his wrist.

“Haven’t had the chance to talk with you, yet.” You admit and stop, turn to him with a delirious smile and velvety, honey-coated tone, “You always run away from me before I have the chance.”

Where Roman is your pocket galleons, Newton is an _actual_ friend. The two of you have been through thick and thin. Thick meaning insane study sessions, since Newt would never put anyone, himself included, in danger, and thin meaning how close your sanity has till it withers from his near maddening shy exterior. You became acquaintances entirely by chance. You were bored. He was in your way. You have no idea how he tolerates your madness.

He is most pretty though, and you will admit that you are extremely shallow. His freckles are like stars littered through the night’s sky. He glows with a certain warm light. His presence is comforting. He is Ophelia’s rival in terms of beauty.

But he is just so _boring_.

“I saw you on the train.” Newt admits, “I wanted to say hello, _but_ …”

“But you chickened out?” You finish for him. You let go of his frail wrist, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Nothing new or surprising. Still, I figured you would at least wait around for me after dinner.”

“You were…” He trails off, eyes nervously jumping around the décor, “With…Roman…and Miss Sherbet…”

“ _Seriously_?” You stumble, “You saw, _too_?”

“(Name), the whole school was staring.” It is one of the few times Newton sounds serious, confident. It is a tone that always catches you off guard in the most pleasant way.

You dissect his appearance: cheeks tinted with a soft red; shoulders tense; normally empathetic green eyes now bore into the ground, stark and cold as winter. There was an edge to his tone.

You can hardly contain the smugness as you ask, “My my, Newt, are you… _jealous_?”

“W- _What_?” He stammers, startled. You shrug, freighting innocence.

“No matter how many Sherbets undress before me, know that you still are my very _favourite_.” You finish with a wink. Newt gulps, glances away.

Newton: “Not funny.”  
You: “I thought it was pretty funny.”  
Newton: “It was not.”

He is firm with his decision. His arms cross over his chest and he keeps his gaze steeled away from you. You are fully ready to throw a dramatic temper tantrum, yet echoing footsteps stop you in your tracks. The corridor is empty besides the two of you, but by the sound of it, some Professor will interrupt your dilly dallying and shush you back to your separate Common Rooms. And you hadn’t even had the chance to tell Newton about the gathering in moonlight. If you are going, so is he. You refuse to suffer in solitude.

Before you can think straight (not that you ever), you grab hold of his arm and yank him into a broom closet, the door opening and shutting with a gentle click. Newton is speechless for a heartbeat, before his lips open to protest but your hand quickly clasps over them and he shushes. They are unbelievably soft to the delicate flesh of your palm. It is a bit distracting. In the dark you can somewhat see the strange look he is giving you. You only manage to grin in return.

The footsteps come and pass without a stop to ponder. Danger is averted, and so your hand drops from his face. Only now do you realize how close the two of you are. This room is heavenly small.

You: “Tonight. At the gala. Sherbet is throwing a little celebration. You are going.”  
Newton:  “I am not.”   
You: “I am going. You are, too.”  
Newton: “(Name), listen I really… _really_ don’t feel like s-seeing you _and-and_ …”

He trails off, uncertain, conflicted. You can almost hear his heart beating in his chest. It is strangely intimate. You inhale sharply; in the mystery of the shadows your hand wanders to his, firm and reassuring.

“I will not leave you.” You swear, your voice a rasp echo of your usual drawl, “I simply do not want to go alone.”


	2. SCENE II & III

**SCENE II**

Newt Scamander did not believe that (Name) and he had met by accident that July morning. It was fate, a being sometimes cruel, yet at rare occasions willing to spare happiness for those that so desperately needed it. Newton had known about him for years, yet he had only learned Newt’s name when he was starting the fifth year of his magical journey.

It was a quiet morning, barely sunlit; the house had been asleep when Newton returned. He was in the gardens again, sleeping under the stars instead of the dull walls of his bedroom. He never appreciated his supposed space. It confined him, he felt as if he could not breathe if he was away from nature. A friend of Theseus had come to visit, and of course that had all to do with Newt’s reluctance to return to the kitchen for a glass of water. He did so, anyway, hoping that he would not find that strange boy lingering about.

His hope was squashed into dread when he spotted the vaguely familiar figure of (Name) (Lastname) stirring himself a pot of coffee. He wore a shirt that was loosely draped over his frame, hair a mess of (colour) locks. It took Newt aback – (Name) was always an example of prestige, someone his mother could proudly reference: ‘Look how slick his hair is!’, ‘What a proper stance! Chin up, Newton!’, ‘Oh my! How charming! Newt, come here, why don’t you? Take some pointers’ and so on and so forth. He could practically hear her voice. It haunted him. Yet there this illusion of perfection was broken. (Name), perhaps he felt being stared at, sleepily turned around to face him and gave a sheepish grin.

“ _Good morning_.” His voice was raw with downiness. One of his (colour) eyes blinked unevenly. He appeared a bit silly and Newt fell somewhat at ease, “You’re…Theseus’ brother Newton, am I correct?” He gulped at the question. It was incredibly strange being noticed by someone so high up in the stars. Newton figured he would go unnoticed by him forever. Not that there was _any need_ for him to chat Newton up, though that would have been interesting, if not highly stressful. Newt blinked, forgetting to answer. By the sudden quirk of (Name)’s lips he realized that he completely missed his mark, “Has my beauty dazzled you?”

Newt blushed behind his ears; it felt hot and unpleasant, “ _W-What_?”

(Name): “My beauty. Are you in awe?”  
Newton: “I-…uh- _what_?”

He could clearly tell (Name) was teasing, mostly because the said male snickered into his drink and nearly choked. With a few coughs he set the cup on the counter, wiped his lips with a delirious smile, “If only your brother was as easily lost.” He replied, as charming as ever. A shadow of his pristine, theatrical image loomed over him – the (Name) most new, the (Name) _Newt_ knew. Yet at school (Name) had this sort of distorted form of humour; humour for the sake of hurting others; humour that meant to insult. Then, standing by the door frame like a lost pup, Newton felt no malice.

“How…how was your stay?” He had asked. In whole truth, Newton hardly cared for an answer. All he wished to know was why (Name) is here and when will he leave, yet to outward question it would be extremely impolite, and in turn, completely un-British.

(Name) stopped to ponder over an answer, “ _Eventful_.” He lastly decided on the word, “Theseus is rather… _energetic_ when it comes to the subjects he loves. I was told it is a family trait.” There was something underlying in his tone and the smug smirk only proved Newt’s suspicions, though what it was he could not tell, “He was Head Boy, as you know. I merely stopped over to get some pointers since I am very set on that position. I’ll be out your hair before you know it.”

“… _Oh_.” was all Newt mustered.

“And where were you the whole night?” (Name) asked nonchalantly. Newt figured that it hardly mattered if he gave an honest answer or not. The boy did not seem all that interested.

But upon their eyes meeting, he felt a surge of heat shoot through him; embarrassed, he glanced away, stumbling over his words, “I- _uhm_ -well, I… I was sleeping in the garden again.”

“ _Again_?”

Newt nodded dryly, “Yes I…enjoy sleeping under the stars. It’s sort of…” A shy smile twitched onto his lips, “…-an adventure every time.”

It was difficult to read (Name)’s expression (it was an early observation on Newton’s part, this sort of strange enigmatic energy surrounded the Slytherin boy that was impervious even to the most perceptive eye. (Name) portrayed exclusively what he wanted other people to see, to know, to feel. Years later, he would be no easier to understand than now). Yet surely it is impossible to wear a mask so perfectly. In the purging morning rays (Name)’s eyes were black spots of mystery. Newt wondered should he disengage before he got roped into something he was unwilling to get involved into.

(Name): “And…you do not get cold?”  
Newton: “I would not say, no. I do not sleep well indoors, see. It brings me great discomfort. Outside I can focus more freely.”  
(Name): “Focus on what?”  
Newton: “On, well, reading, I suppose. I…I--…You must have heard the rumours by now, by how I am…--“  
(Name): “-Very passionate. I have, yes. You enjoy reading about magical creatures, or am I wrong?”  
Newton: “You are not, no.”

There was a pause. Then (Name)’s smile widened, his eyes twinkling with mirth in the rising sun. Newt gulped. He had heard that said look brought nothing but trouble. He had yet to imagine just _how much_.

“Trust me when I say that I have heard _far stranger_ things, my friend.”

 

 ****  
  


**  
**

**SCENE III**

  
Newton would not know how he would spend his nights and days if (Name) was not around to pester him. By all means, (Name) still remained that same, eccentric puzzle Newt had dubbed him upon first meeting, yet now his movements were, more often than not, entirely predictable and he held no grudges or ill intent against Newt. The Hufflepuff would most likely be reading now, or watching the embers in the fire place glow from boredom. Instead he is sneaking about with his heart hammering in his chest so loud he fears a wandering professor might hear it.

The night is calm. (Name) meets him half-way and it is to be expected that he looks no different – still smug, still perpetually dramatic, still with a sort of signature upwards quirk on the corner of his lips that remind more of a smirk than anything. He had mentioned nothing of attire, and so Newton did not bother to wear weekend robes that were, for the most part, preserved for special occasions only. (Name), too, wore his uniform, hands folded behind his back. One would think he owned the dark corridors of the sleeping castle; he walks in a leisure pace that implies nothing but confidence. Newt follows after him. Newt is always fallowing after him. Always one step behind.

“(Name)…” Newt pipes up, his voice a soft whisper. (Name) hums; torchlight distorts his shadow on the ground, “Apologies if I am prying…”

“Come now, you could never.”

Yet he felt no calmer. Inside a storm is brewing; pure chaos. His lungs contract in uneven breaths.

“It is just so…--it appears that— _that_ …not that I would know, however… _I_ …must admit my curiosity.” Newt mutters, and (Name) stops, waits for him to catch up. In the shadows (Name) appear mysterious, like a night owl watching him with an inquisitive gaze. He gulps; his throat is dry and he curses his mouth for daring to speak in the first place, “Is there…” He glances away, “Is there…perhaps a… _liking_ between you and Miss Sherbet?” He finally finishes, his face burning as if it was set on fire.

(Name) are quiet for a single heartbeat, “No.” He admits, swallowing a mirthless laugh before he turns and start walking again, “There is nothing.”

Newton: “ _Oh_ … Poor girl, she…she will be heartbroken.”  
(Name): “What is that supposed to mean?”  
Newton: “Well…”  
(Name): “ _Well_?”  
Newton: “(Name), you…You do…see the way she looks at you, _correct_?”  
(Name): “I am _very_ handsome.”  
Newton: “No. What I mean is that she…that she has a… _possibly_ …not that I’d know…”  
(Name): “Will you say it or will I have to _make_ you?”

Newt’s heart skips a beat and he nearly trips over his shoelace.

“Miss Sherbet might… be fancying you.”

(Name) whistles, “That is… rather unfortunate.” Yet the news does not sound new to him at all. Just another dull week-old excerpt from the paper. By his lack of reaction – surely many a lad would jump with glee at the idea of the school’s nymph harbouring love for him – Newton realises that, in fact, (Name) does know, simply pretends not to. Whether it is for Miss Sherbet’s own good or his personal entertainment is entirely unknown.

Newton: “Then… we are still going?”  
(Name): “Of course we are. Why wouldn’t we be?”  
Newton: “Well, because, don’t you think it’s a bit… _cruel_? Tempting her?”

(Name)’s hand lands on Newton’s shoulder. A genuine smile brims on his lips, “ _Newton_ , you know I have no moral compass. _You_ are here to protect others from _me_ and _me_ from _myself_. You are, _quite literally_ , my better half. “

Though hearing such words is comforting and pleasant, bitterness collects on the tip of Newt’s tongue. (Name) squeezes his shoulder one last time for good measure before letting go. The connection is lost and now Newt feels somewhat chilly, though it might be the damp dungeon air affecting him. He wonders how many others (Name) has told this _very same_ phrase to. Knowing him, the list might as well be endless. Words lose meaning if they are often repeated. It is a hurtful, poisonous thought.

Yet Newton swallows it down, tries to ignore it. To simply enjoy his company and all the peculiarities that come along with it. (Name) truly is Newton’s best mate, _best_ …Well, no matter how morally ambiguous (Name) may be, to Newton he is still the _best_.

~*~

The Gala is a spark – a booming spell, an unruly flame – truly, whichever word one might pick, one would be correct. Newt feels entirely out of place here: his ears ring with swinging music, its energy compulsory, shaking, and his eyes can hardly keep up with so many colourful silken outfits. Girls, _no_ , women, **_no_** , _temptresses_ fluff about with the hems of their dresses tickling their knees. Formalities are left behind the door. Perfumes, drinks, laughs, and scents of lipstick mix into a vertigo inducing dream.

(Name) fixes his hair, swoops it to one side. Newt stands awkwardly beside him.

“( _Name_ )!” Sherbet’s voice pierces the air like a bell. She soon appears in a cloud of fruity fragrance. Her small hand brushes past (Name)’s wrist, “I’m so glad you could make it!” She, too, is changed out of her dull blue uniform; her petite frame is draped over by a loose, sparkly dress. Newt has heard these are growing in popularity in France, or so (Name) has told him.

He gulps. Anxiety nearly chokes him. He despises standing out, and he figured that amongst so many people he would be like a phantom. But he and (Name) are the only two underdressed. But (Name) has a suave charm about him – _everything_ and _anything_ suits him – whilst Newton appears like a fish out of water, an unwanted, awful intruder into the socialite nest.

And Sherbet’s stance proves his ideas perfectly. He nearly withers from her judgemental gaze, “It’s good to see you too,…” She does not recall his name and his mouth is too dry to even dare say it.

“Newton.” (Name) introduces, “Doris, this is my best friend in the whole wide world, and easily the best person, too, Newton Scamander.” Her posture changes immediately. The coldness replaces with sunny warmth as she eagerly shakes Newt’s sweaty hand.

“A pleasure!” She chirps. It sounds fake. Her eyes return to (Name), “Would you like some punch?”

Newt silently panics. (Name) never refuses alcohol or entertainment, and the two combined are recipe for disaster.

“Please.” (Name) breathes. Sherbet giggles and tugs him away from Newt. (Name) looks back at him with a shrug and a wave. _Fantastic_. Perhaps he should just leave whilst it is still safe?

(Name)’s words echo in his ear, pleasant and genuine, “ _You are, quite literally, my better half_.” His heart betrays him. His whole rigid exterior does. He could not leave him, even if he wished to. And so, sweeping the area for a more secluded corner to hide in, Newton takes in a deep, painful breath. A long night is ahead of him.

It is past the witching hour, or perhaps it is still but approaching. Music had long ago merged with excited breaths and screams and laughs and chatter into a ritualistic, tribal drum. Newton wanders around with a drink of cold punch warming in his hand, his eyes drooping with sleep. Haze and humidity; the air sticks to his skin, drenches him in sweat. He roams around the Gala like a soul unable to find peace. The stimuli are too much; there are too many people here; too many colours jump about; he will have another anxiety attack if he stays. It is _torture_ , but what one does not do for friends… _Friends_ …Some friend (Name) is, leaving him in to his lonesome self while he searches for something improper to do. Newton nearly smacks himself for thinking so ill of his only friend. It is exhaustion that is getting to him, he conducts, and slowly makes his way to the backdrop of the Gala. Behind the curtain is where secrets lie. Normally, he would not dare to venture there – (Name) had warned that theatre rules state unless you want to see the bare face of actors you should not disturb the red velvet shielding them– but again, he is too tired, too out of it, and the punch is surely spiked and he hardly cares about what he finds on the other side as long as the other side is afterlife and it will finally grand him peace.

He finds no one here and breathes in with relief. He wanders further, behind the white clothed tables, vaguely aware of his surroundings. He is willing to sleep on the floor if he must, but he will at least search for a chair before finding a comfortable tile to lay his head on. Here is quieter. The music is somewhat muted; now it really does sound like a drum. The air is stuffy from dust yet cool. It is entirely dark, except a sliver of warm lamp light coming from the ajar back door. Newt radiates to it as if a moth to a flame. As he finally reaches it, however…he is suddenly fully awake.

Alexander is his name, Newt thinks. He is tall and lanky and enjoys playing the villain, though what Leta said of him is that he is naturally funny and much more harmless than (Name). The same (Name) in which’s limbs he is tangled it, and if Newt knew better he would think the two are performing some sort of strange ritualistic dance to the strange ritualistic beat that sounds more and more like Newt’s heartbeat. There is a tint of forcefulness in (Name), raw hunger that radiates from his touches. It is evident; vibrating; magnetic. Alexander moans into the kiss or…Is it Newt that does? He is so shocked that white stars dance in his vision. This might be an illusion or a realistic nightmare.

With a frightened step Newt stumbles away from the door, his crystal glass slipping from his trembling fingers. He hears it crash yet the two boys do not, too wrapped up in one another to notice. He should _not_ have seen this. There is a part of him that is insanely hurt that (Name) did not confide such a secret with him, yet it is evenly split with understanding. And there is pain, pain closely resembling _anger_ , yet from where it stems he cannot place. He rushes away before anyone can notice him lingering.

He leaves the Gala entirely.

The walk to the Hufflepuff chambers is unexplainably short and his wicked, troubling thoughts catch up with him when he closes his eyes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh mi gosh thank u so much for all the kudos and comments and reads!!! <3 cant wait to hear what you think of this chapter and dont worry albus will be in the next one ;) love yall so much!!!! xoxo


	3. SCENE IV & V

**SCENE IV**

The grand cobble and stone of the castle is replaced by wooden and clay houses of Hogsmeade; into their timber seeps wetness and radiates in an earthy, muddled fragrance. Bleak afternoon light illuminates the cloudy sky; the air is cold; an atmosphere of sober rain. The Northern isles rattle from wind - its trails pinch at the ends of girls’ skirts and messes up their perfect up does. What an outstandingly boring weekend.

Your hands freeze as you stand outside with Roman, your eyes briefly following after scurrying students, and later, falling onto the two schoolgirls that had shyly left the warm nest of the café to discuss secrets with a smoke. Smoking is widely popular, always will be you assume. Smoking is a sign of sophistication; it is not merely an act, but a show of status. Miss Sherbet, for instance, smokes from an onyx cigarette holder, which’s surface is sleek and reflective, yet not enough to mimic a mirror. It is like a carved gem with a silver tip, which her lips touch with each short breath. With the cigarette, her hand appears even slimmer than it already is. The cigarette itself emits different aromas, from passionfruit to strawberries to something enticing and light-headed. And your father, as another example, smokes his pipe, every hour on the hour, made of the finest wood, and surely unworthy of your filthy fingers to even graze. Roman, besides you, smokes something strong and imported – it suits him and his harsh features perfectly – while you settle for the simple, yet arrogant _: Lucky Strike_.

The air tints with smoke. You rub your free hand into your coat, savouring the friction of warmth it provides. Roman gives you a strange, dissatisfied look, his eyes roaming to your cigarette before a deep frown graces his features, “You still on that?” He motions to it. You shrug. “… It tastes like dog piss.”

You raise a brow, “Know the taste of dog piss, do we? You Russians are _entirely_ strange. “

He snorts, “You are one to talk, friend. But no, really, do enlighten me. I always see you light it and I always wonder. Surely you can at least afford something German, or Japanese. Merlin’s Beard, I’d share my own pack, if you wanted. I have far more than enough. And they are good, believe me, they are good. Better than anything Britain has, or can have, for that matter.”

You narrow down at his cigarette – it is thick tube of white paper, as uninteresting as every other cigarette on this Earth. You fight the smile that threatens to curl at the corner of your lips, yet it slips past your best efforts, “…You truly wish to know why?” You question for good measure, laughter tickling the back of your throat. He gives you a look, a look all people give when something is so offensively obvious. You grin, “It’s because I am so _bloody_ _lucky_.”

“And cocky.”

“That I am included to agree to.” You answer with smoke falling from your lips. Its distinct taste, along with the still fresh lingering kiss of coffee, is simply delicious.

Conversation comes to an end for a while. Behind you the café’s bell chimes again as more patrons pile out with lighters in their hands and cigarettes or cigars between their teeth. Conjuring fire with a wand is extremely unfashionable. None of the people you know, or are willing to associate with, would flick their wand for fire. Some muggle trends, however scarce they might be, are popular amongst wizards, even if purebloods would never admit so.

The familiar lean figure of Alexander whisks past – his steps are always quick and somewhat sloppy, and his foot had landed into a puddle and splashed all over his new shoes. He does not appear to mind, however, as when he passes his eyes stay locked on you. You pretend not to mind. Roman, in a fit of friendly possessiveness and to an extreme extent – jealousy – narrows down at the passing boy and his hateful glare stays on him until his back fades down the street.

Vasnev: “What’s the deal with him?”  
You: “With who?”  
Vasnev: “Alexander.”  
You: “ _Which_ Alexander? I can only think of two worth mentioning.”

There are three Alexanders at Hogwarts. One is the Dean’s helper, the other is a quick-witted Ravenclaw a grade bellow you. You have heard of his many great achievements and not once congratulated him. It is your duty as Head Boy to show no favouritism and support all Houses equally. In turn he had agreed to do your homework for a year. He is still, to this day, repaying his debt for a measly 30 house points.

And there is _your_ Alexander, but he is hardly _yours_ and _not all_ interesting.

Vasnev: “The Slytherin. He’s been following you.”  
You: “He’s been _what_?”  
Vasnev: “Following you. I have noticed him lurking about whenever you are around. You his friend or something?”  
You: “I figured you were talking about Dean’s right hand or my personal servant. “  
Vasnev: “Perhaps he wishes to be your friend.”  
You: “That is rather unfortunate, because I have no interest in any _new_ friends.”

Roman likes your answer. He does not appreciate new people ruining this perfect, one-sided unity the two of you have. You would appreciate it, if you did not find it quite clingy.

People pass the street yet again, though this time your heart skips a beat from curiosity. Leta Lestrange – tall and pretty – saunters down the street, lonesome, with her eyes glued to the dirty road she walks. Newton is nowhere to be seen. If you knew no better, you would think he was not avoiding you, simply busy with studies or readings or a magical creature he stumbled upon in the woods. Yet you are not Roman, and know full well his terrible absence is by something you surely did, yet what you still do not know. Is it because you had left him at the Gala? It is not the first time, nor will it be the last, and you see no point in him ignoring you. It gets on your nerves when something is not according to your plan. You grow terribly impatient when you do not get what you want. Perhaps this is the sole reason your father does not allow you to touch his pipe – your childish tantrums would eventually break it.

“Wait here, will you.” You mutter to Roman, he following after you gaze. As you jump into step, he calls after you.

“Really? _Leta_? When you have Sherbet drooling over your shirt?”

You turn back to him with a grin, “Can a _Sherbet_ compare to a _Lestrange_? Dear friend, it is all politics. You are Russian, or are you not? Conquest for power should be in your blood.”

When you reach her, her eyes flash with distaste and a soft frown laces her brows together; she stops in her tracks, apprehensive, as if approached by a wild, dangerous animal. You give her a warm smile, one that appears a bit bland in this poor lighting.

You: “Leta. As beautiful as ever.”  
Leta: “What is it you want, (Lastname)?”  
You: “Ah, I always forget you despise small talk. You should practice it, though. Merely a friendly suggestion. Perhaps _then_ you would not spend your weeks at Hogwarts pitifully alone.”

Her jaw tightens, yet she says nothing. You continue, “Do not worry, I do not plan on keeping you for long. I was simply wondering where Newton is. Haven’t seen him for a while. His absence greatly concerns me.”

“I doubt it.” She mutters, eyes darting to the café and back, “But if you must know, he does not want to see you. You should leave him be.”

Your brows rise in surprise, a grin tugging on the corner of your lips, “You jest.”

Leta gives you a warm smile, “It is my pleasure to assure you that I do not. I do not know what you did. And I do not want to. But if it finally, _finally_ made Newt realise just what of a royal—“

“ _Ah-Ah-Ah_.” You cut in, “ _Language_.”

A frustrated sigh escapes her lips, “— _if_ it is enough for him to _finally_ be rid of you, then I celebrate it. Your wiles have failed you at last.”

“You speak of me as if I was the devil himself.”

She takes a step forward, her previous aloofness now replaced with near motherly fierceness, “ _No_. But you are close. And a terrible influence. It pains me watching my friend suffer at the likes of you.”

“You do realise that Newton has a mind of his own, no?”

“Then you must _realise_ how gentle he is. He would never inconvenience you. I say it is his greatest weakness. Just leave him be, (Lastname). For once, do something actually decent.”

She pushes past you; her perfume hits your nose as if a powerful spell. She saunters away with her head held high in imaginary power. Her words, despite your best effort, poke and prod your skin, begging to get underneath it. With one last puff you flick your cigarette onto the ground and immediately fish for another one. What an unfavourable end to a properly normal afternoon.

 

**SCENE V**

“(Lastname)!”

His voice is the last thing you imagined you would hear this evening; the day spent at the café had been bearable before Leta, but after her it was almost impossible to sit and pretend to enjoy Roman and his irrational ideas. The street lamps had lit and their warm, golden glow had ushered you out for some air. You try to push back on whatever unsavoury thoughts are plaguing your mind. You will not give Leta the pleasure in deforming your perfectly selfish character. She is from your House, but you have no loyalty. Slytherin will start this year in a minus, and it is entirely her fault. All of this is her fault.

But when, highly irritated, you wrapped your scarf around your neck with white smoke coming from your lips, you heard Professors Dumbledore’s voice, your pesky mind had stilled, eerily so. You lift your eyes and see him approaching, his friendly features drowned in evening allure. Your face grows hot with every erratic beat of your heart. You must pull it together.

When he is close enough you give him a flattering grin, “Good evening, Professor.”

“I have not had the time to ask you how was your first week back. Do hope Head Boy duties are not keeping you too preoccupied.” He says in a song, watching you closely.

“No, professor. Bearable, so far. “

“Well then, if you ever need anything, you know you may ask. You must be with company, now. I should not disturb you.”

You: “No, actually. I came alone. After such and eventful summer, it is even more chaotic being back amongst my peers. Exciting, but draining. I decided to spend the weekend alone. Plan and think. After all, the second week is always the toughest.”  
Albus: “ _Ah_ , then would you mind joining me? I am just on my way to my favourite chocolate café. The ones you favour…Are a bit _too_ crowded.”  
You: “Of course, Professor. I cannot say I have ever been to it, though.”  
Albus: “ _Really_? Dare I say it is the best place in Hogsmeade. Right after Zonko’s Joke Shop.”  
You: “You a frequent visitor, sir?”  
Albus: “Do not tell the school faculty I said so.”

The Chocolate Shop is scarcely populated - a few patrons sit in the back, drinking tea and eating strawberry shortcake. The whole interior glows with warm light reflecting on expensive satin. The front desk is adorned with different types of chocolate, all colours of the rainbow, and their various pastries. The delicious scents sliver in the air like magic. A tune, melodious though incomprehensible, plays in the background. You look over the various delicacies in a desperate attempt to distract yourself. Cool air radiates from your skin. There is a knot in your throat.

“What shall you be having, (Lastname)?” Albus asks. You turn to him with an owlish blink.

“Oh, no need. I will pay for myself.”

“Come now, I drag you here so at the very least allow me to pay for your drink. Now, what will it be?” He asks again, and you know he will not relent unless you submit. Which you do with a simple, grateful nod. Your cheeks heat with warmth, though you play it off as change in weather. _Is this normal_? You wonder, _do all students go on late night trips with their favourite Professors?_ A part of you is terribly immature and curious, which is against your nature. Where is all that _charm_ your mother kept boasting about? You feel as if a fair maiden, shy and confined within her feelings, in the presence of her magnificent Montague.

You find a seat close to the windows, they being an unconscious distraction when you become too enraptured within your thoughts and his presence. The plush seats glimmer in deep green velvet.

“You know, I can never find myself comfortable sitting down. Always prefer to stand, even when teaching. That may or may not have something to do with me hearing all sorts of horror stories from my fellow teachers and their seats. Some had cried that nails poke out. Remember this next time your friends complain about their chairs being uncomfortable.” He says with a smile tugging on the corner of his lips. You grin in disbelieve.

“That is terrible.” You agree.

“Terrible? _Yes_. Though, judging by your smile I say you find it quite _funny_.” He says mirthful. Your heart nearly jumps to your throat.

“It is just I did not expect teaching to be… so full of dangers. Especially in such places.”

The waitress brings the two of you coffee.

Albus: “I have been meaning to ask you. Have you picked a Professor to supervise you, yet?”  
You: “ _Oh_ , no, not yet. Still have not figured what my essay will be about, either. My mind does drift towards Transfiguration, though.”  
Albus: “Then let me know, when you do. If I still have a free spot, I will take you in.”  
You: “How many spots are left, if you do not mind me asking?”  
Albus: “Only one. The competition this year is fierce.”  
You: “Then consider me officially in your care. Professor.”

 

**END OF ACT I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AA----thank u so much for sticking with me through this hellish update schedule. i literally had THREE versions of these same two scenes and none fit lol THIS IS WHY IT TAKES SO LONG I AM SO PICKY!!!! scene V is actually based on real life events, though ; ) dw i am not dating my prof and violating college ethics code....i almost did tho! haha! life is fucking crazy. anyway, hope you like this chapter! i love what a pretentious ass the reader is. no moral code. here to hoping for character development in future acts! cheers! xoxo


	4. ACT II: SCENE I

**ACT II**

**SCENE I**

At Hogwarts there is a room for anything one may desire. The castle needs people to survive; without them, is merely an empty shell of a former being. The spaces grow and disappear and regrow again upon command; the infinity of it is fascinating and worth exploring, alone or not. Yet some rooms are fixed – they do not wander, nor do they suddenly vanish into smoke – namely the ones that are created by wizards. One of such wondrous areas contains a swimming pool, it being the least magical thing on the grounds.

The air is polluted with chlorine; crystal blue water is poured over pale slippery tiles once students go in and out of it. Council had insisted that Hogwarts’ students _especially_ hardly have any exercise. How can one have a healthy mind when their body is lacking? Yes, there is Quidditch, ruthless and difficult and needing intense endurance, but how one may build it if there are no easier ways to train? Running and flying can only get one _that_ far. For that reason, physical education was added to the curriculum. Many students met this with groans of protests. Newton Scamander was no different from them, full to the brim with dread at the mere prospect of wearing nothing but a black tank and black shorts clinging to his petit form while he swims in cold water.

The Coach’s whistle blows and they all line up by the pool, its depths seemingly endless the harder Newt stares at it. The water is unmoving; from outside the windows a lifeless morning greats them with bleak, ghastly light. His fellow housemates mix with the joining house – Slytherin today, Gryffindor next week – and whisper amongst themselves. Newton already feels as if he is drowning. The Coach starts to speak, his accent thick and Irish and Newton faintly hears (Name)’s serpent like hiss about one thing or another. It is a voice that cannot be mistaken for anyone else. With longing, or perhaps out of desperate habit, Newton tilts his head to the side of the voice, catching (Name) engaged in eager conversation with Vasnev Tarasovich. The two of them make quite a comedic pair: (Name), tall, lanky, and of theatrical expression, jittering next to a somewhat stone-faced, bulky, and short Vasnev. Newton quickly looks away before he is spotted.

Out of swimming, or standing half-naked, Newton dreaded seeing (Name) the most. He could not look at him the same way after the Gala. But for different reasons, ones he is yet unable to name, nor admit.

The smell is repugnant. It reminds him of a few summer back, when (Name) was still but an apparition, not entirely real, belonging to a different frame of reality. It was evening and the sky was gold-orange and delightful, the summer heat clinging to his skin, humid, and choking with the sweet scent of roses. The Scamander summer home was envied by many, it being idyllic, a visage of soft colours Monet no doubt painted. A lake was nearby, which’s water was always warm; the grass was cut; the garden was crowded with flowers; his mother’s homemade lemonade was the staple of summer holiday: citrusy, sugary, it touched the very core of the soul.

And Newt sat hidden in the rosebushes, their thorns picking at his side with the same force their red petals caressed the sides of his flushed face. Theseus and that boy from school, (Name) (Lastname), sat lounged by the lake with nothing but swim shorts. It was highly improper. Newton figured that is why (Lastname) did not show up since their mother left, making Newton and his brother the only occupants for the day. (Lastname) brought a bottle of something bubbly and the two of them drank it the same way their bodies drank the rays of the sun. It was the first and only time Newton saw Theseus smoke a cigarette - his face was red and he was coughing and (Name) did nothing but laugh and drink and mock him.

Newton’s mind drifted, anxious to get out. He assumed Theseus figured Newton was locked in his room, too uncomfortable with a guest to show himself. And that is all true, except Newt found the day much too pleasant to pass up and found a comfortable spot by the roses, in the shade, in the buzz of honeybees and natures alluring songs. But then he heard a different, somewhat familiar voice and grasped his books, practically falling into the bushes, yelping and hissing as the thorns pierced his skin. Now he was stuck, with nothing to do but watch two boys enjoy their summer holiday. He felt as if an intruder.

(Name) stood up and stretched and Theseus muttered something about lemonade and rushed back into the house with an uneven step. (Name) looked around, tall, a bit burned from tanning, his face strangely focused for his slouched stance. He looked so beautiful it terrified Newton.

Theseus appeared again with two glasses and ice clinking within them. He said some joke and (Name) laughed again. Then, he slung his arm over his shoulder, continuing to talk and the two boys were close in an amiable way. Or so it appeared. Newton did not entirely focus on that, rather it is the height difference that allured him. (Name) was younger, though much taller, and it appeared a bit silly having to position his body in such a way to fit Theseus’ grip. And his skin looked boyish soft, though his face already showed sharp signs of adolescence. But his knees were bruised (an alarming observation Newt noticed time and time again as years went by, though how or why he could never place) and for someone so graceful and lean, Newt could not imagine (Name) being so clumsy.

The heat was scorching and the scent or roses made his eyes water. (Name) tapped his brother’s hand and pulled from his grip, grabbing his wrist and yanking him into the water. The two boys fell with booming laughs and splashes. The view was then obscured by an old oak and Newt figured now was as good of a time as any to run back into his room and never speak of this to anyone ever again.

He is not sure why that memory resurfaced all of the sudden, yet it did, and it was so vivid it frightened him. He is suddenly back in the cool, wet room and acutely aware of all eyes on him, the Coach’s expectant stare and the snickering group of boys watching him like hawks. He is quickly pushed to the peer by strong hands, and the last thing he sees before being plunged into water is his own mortified reflection on its rippling surface.

Newton was never a good swimmer. And when lacking the proper preparation he is even worse, catatonic in water, it swallows him up completely, it is claustrophobic and his heart beats wildly. Chlorine fills his mouth and desperately he tries to swim up to catch his breath, but his hands cramp up and panic sets his mind ablaze.

It’s that repulsive smell of roses that lingers in his mind when his eyes fall scarily shut, body heaving with shivers. The summer day returns as a mirage of the romantic past. Though in this version, the tall, stretching boys notices the one hiding in the rosebushes and calls his name in a joyful exclamation. The last thing his mind conjures is playful, sunlit (colour) eyes and then…

He is lurched back to reality painfully and gasping for breath, as if being born all over again. He opens his wild green eyes and everything is blurry and staggers and he is shaking and coughing and someone is holding his shoulders and trying to snap him out of it. In the buzzing of his mind he hears the Coach shout “Space! Give him some space! Let him breath!” and those arms are pulled off of him and he slowly sits up, his nose and throat burning from the alien water stuck within it.

A peculiar scene unfolds around him. He is sprawled on the tiles, red faced and trembling from the cold, as his schoolmates surround him and watch as if it was an exotic play. He is drenched; his hair sticks to the sides of his face like seaweed.. He slowly turns his head, failing to hear the curious mutters of students – they are hardly concerned for his wellbeing, rather more intrigued to the conclusion of this act – and his eyes finally land on (Name) who is held by Vasnev, dripping with water, panting, eyes wild with raw worry. It shocks Newton more than almost drowning.

“Can you stand, son?” The Coach inquires, extending his hand. Newt regards it as if an unfamiliar object, lastly clasping his frail hands around his and being yanked onto his feet. He sways in place, and the Coach lands a reassuring, comforting hand on his shoulders, “Go change. You’re dismissed for today. When you’re done, find me. I’ll take you to the nurse.” He then turns to the ogling crowd, “The rest of you - fifteen laps in groups of three.” Lastly, he regards (Name) with pride, “Quick reflexes, (Lastname). Ten points to Slytherin.”

Vasnev: “Shoulda been a bloody Gryffindor.”  
(Name): “Don’t be stupid. If it were you, I would have laughed and made sure you never surfaced.”

¬*¬

Newton Scamander is amiss with emotion, uncertain what to feel, or think for that matter. He changed in a daze, wrapped his scarf around his neck absentminded and aloof, faintly feeling the cold that seemingly seeped past his skin and settled into his very bones. The stench dragged into the locker room and wild splashes and exuberant shouts, muffled as they were, grounded Newton in reality when he just started to slip again. It was (Name) that jumped into the pool after him instead of poking fun with the rest; it was (Name) that reacted first, rather than the trained teacher. It was a display of honest and true friendship. Newt got light just thinking about it.

After he had reassured the Coach he is fine, still blinking stupidly, still clearing his throat and scrunching his nose, he left the area with one last glance sent the swimming boys’ way. He was unable to find (Name) amongst them, possibly he was submerged underwater, or just out of eyesight, and Newton left feeling just a tad disappointment he wasn’t able to thank him. Perhaps (Name) would find him on his own. Newton was always too afraid to seek him out; too uncomfortable with the company the Slytherin boy often entertained. That is what he decided he shall do – wait.

He stumbled into the corridor and pulled his robe closer – the air is warmer and is almost unnervingly dry, though he still trembles. He stops when he spots a vaguely familiar figure lounging by the windowsill, heavy book in hand. It is Alexander, and Newt immediately feels scorched. The silent boy reads “Iliad” – a title mentioned a few times during History of  Magic, all the way back in year five, no, _four_? Newton does not have History of  Magic anymore, and the only reason he can think why Alexander has this book, it nearly tearing at its spine, with fragile pages that crumble when touched too roughly, is because he is either in (Name)’s class, or is trying to get (Name)’s attention. Considering he sits right across from the door to the boys’ locker room, Newton leans more to the latter. That idea does not sit well with him.

He regards Alexander with a spiteful look, though the boy not once glances away from his reading, simply turns the page and continues. Alas, Newton wanders down the hall, dejected.

The day passes in a blur and not once or twice did (Name) rush past him, never stopping, not even muttering a half-hearted greeting. At dinner Leta sat with Newton and she was speaking something charming, something light, yet his eyes kept wandering to the Slytherin boy discussing secrets with Vasnev. The pit in his stomach seemed to open so wide it nearly swallowed him up. Why did (Name) detach himself so heartlessly after such a selfless act? Could it be that Newton was to blame, as he was the first to step out of their friendship?

He must talk to him, Newton concluded, taking a shy sip of his drink. He _must_.

The night fell over the castle like a velvet curtain, heavy, starless. The castle appears uncanny in the dark; portraits mumble sleepily, pale figures of ghosts float and loom in corners, watching nothing in particular, their gazes set beyond these cold walls, beyond this world. The dungeons are damp and cool and Newton’s heart hammers in his chest like a wild drum. He is in search of (Name) – Head Boy duties and all, the privilege to patrol the corridors and punish wandering students till the magical 3 in the morning – and he finds him quite easily, pacing calmly, his wand being the only source of bleak light.

Though as it appears, Newton is not the only one in need of (Name)’s company. Just when he is about to move from his hiding place and utter a timid “Hello”, Doris Sherbet slinks from the shadows like a beautiful siren from the parting waves. Her voice is soft and rasp and _o so_ alluring, and she asks the Head Boy if he would like to take a walk with her, “I am just on my way to my Common Room” she explains, “the castle is so dark and eerie…I took a wrong turn and now I’m here.” She lies.

“I’m afraid I cannot help you, Doris.” (Name)’s voice is diplomatic, perhaps a tad amused, “Five points from Ravenclaw and please, do not let me catch you again.”

She is visibly displeased yet saunters away without another word. Then, (Name), to himself mumbles, “Five points to me for doing such a fan- _bloody_ -tastic job.”

But before one visitor leaves, another arrives, and this time it is Alexander and Newton wants to turn back and forget this whole silly elaborate plan all together. But again, (Name), with a hefty annoyed sigh, dismisses the boy. No house points were lost, however.

Alas, in the dark they are finally left alone. Newt, from the pillars he takes solace in, watches as (Name) leisurely approaches, and before the boy can pass he grabs his upper arm and freezes him in place. Innocent green eyes meet startled (colour) ones. For a moment there is pure silence, only the alien _drip drip drip_ from somewhere down the hall lulls in the background.

“Well,” (Name) mutters in an exhale of breath, “you are the last person I figured I would find here.”

Newt let’s go of him slowly, now uncertain what should he do with his hands. He clears his throat, glancing to the side before starting, “I-well…I just…I wanted to thank you. For today.” The skin of his cheeks burns in rouge, and he wonders briefly in (Name) can see it.

The Slytherin boy’s face softens, if slightly, “Gave me a real scare, you know.” He admits with a hint of that same raw concern Newt saw earlier. The shorter boy gulps, his throat suddenly painfully dry. “But you are very welcome. Now you best run along back to the common room before a wandering professor sees you. I am afraid I will not be much help then.”

But saying goodbye now feels like all of this would go to waste. Perhaps Newt had missed him so dearly he was unable to move, or perhaps he decided to do something brave for the first time in his life as he pulls (Name) into a fierce hug, his heart nearly at his throat. The taller boy is stiff for a moment, unresponsive, but then one arm lazily drapes over Newts shoulder and pulls just a tad closer. He smells of imported cigarettes and expensive cologne.

Newton tastes bitterness on the tip of his tongue when he pulls away, taking a good step back and clearing his throat, flustered, hot as that summer day that nearly drowned him.

“Five points to Hufflepuff.” (Name) announces proudly in an amused whisper.

“…F-For what?” Newt blinks, “For breaking the rules?”

“Would I ever reward you for anything less?” (Name) questions, then winks, “Go now. Off to bed.”


End file.
